Blind Date

It’s 7.30pm on a mild warm friday evening. I am wearing a new off the shoulder chiffon lilac below the knee dress. It’s the dress that my friend Susan tricked me into buying. I say trick because it's not something I would ever dare to wear. It’s too flashy and shows off my curves. I have curves. But, I don’t like them. I prefer to look at my feet. They look great. Susan disagrees, she says my curves are worth admiring. They are being compared to the ones of Sophie Loren. I know Sofia Loren. I know her from her films. I know Susan. I have known her since kindergarten, She never lies. The beauty of the dress lingers and catches the gaze of onlookers who glare at me getting out of the car. I hold onto tightly to my dark blue clutch bag and strut across the paved walkway in my golden knee-high strappy sandals. The smell of fresh lavender coming from the plants at the entrance permeates my mind as it observes the elegance of the restaurant. Tables are set for two. Couples are seated across from each other beaming and lost in conversation. I am searching for my table. I see it. I see it has been taken by a stranger. A stranger, as I don’t know him. I have never met him. It’s Susan’s idea. She said it would do me good. I have been indoors for too long. Closed from the outside. Closed off from meeting a potential partner. She knows my needs better than I do. I like her. I like what she represents. And here I am on a blind date. Who would have thought? The stranger stands to greet me, His hands are warm and soft. I like touching them. His smile is as elegant as the pink orchid in the small glass jar on the table. I admire the orchid. I like orchids. They represent clarity and beauty. My anxiety of meeting a total stranger soon disappears. I begin to admire him. His clear voice has a richness to it. Our conversation gets interrupted by the waiter. He hands us over our menus. I browse through it. The in-depth description of fusion cuisine fails to grip my appetite. Sam looks at it closely. He is inspecting the ingredients. I am inspecting the wines. There is a huge selection. Oh, I know them well. I can tell them apart. I used to write about them. “I want Merlot. It’s soft and sensual texture goes with any type of dish.” It’s a perfect wine for a date. Sam's eyes divert from the menu and look into mine. I hold his gaze until the waiter interrupts us again. We have both ordered grilled chicken with steamed vegetables and a bottle of Merlot. “So, how do you know Susan?” “Ah, she is my sister.” I gulp the water. It has no taste. I usually add ginger and lemon to mine. Susan didn’t give me details. The wine arrives.The waiter pours into both glasses. My mind runs deep into thought. I am hypnotised by the deep purplish color of the red-skinned grapes. I hold the glass in my hand. Stick my nose in, then, I swirl the wine. I take a sip. Sam picks up his and tries to imitate me. “Why do you know so much about wines? He asks curiously. “Well, I used to be a wine critic. My attention drifts to the chicken which looks rather dry and the sight of overcooked cauliflower turns my stomach. “How’s your vegetables?” I ask delicately. “They are good. Great in fact. Sam looks at my untouched plate. “So, you don’t like food?” “I do, I love it. But, I can’t eat that.” I muttered under my breath. Those comments would ruin the date. I have been told off for whining and having high standards in the past, so I choose not to voice them. Sam chooses to voice his new business venture and plans to buy and sell stocks. The sounds of laughter and giggling across from the table makes me want to be part of it. I pour another glass of wine. I gaze into the glass. Sam moves on from business ventures to the new series of “Tom Gear”. I gulp the wine. An onlooker is staring. The waiter has arrived to clean the table. His attention draws to the plate. “Is everything o.k. madam?” “Yes,” “Would you like me to wrap it up for you?” “No, thanks,” He looked startled with my response. I looked startled with his insistence. But, then again, I never ate out or went on blind dates. He insisted again. Sam insisted, until I spoke. I spoke the truth. “The chicken is dry and the vegetables are overcooked.” “I am sorry, madam, I can get you something else.” “No thanks,” I replied adamantly. He walked off back to the kitchen. I walked off to powder my nose. I got distracted by the soft background music playing and the smell of the sweet lotion that soothed my skin. When I got back, Sam had gone. I guess my openness had ruined our date. Fat chance there will be anymore.

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